The Lens

 The Lens 

So many words are spoken today, and so much background noise fills the air, creating confusion. Future generations will not stand a chance unless we begin to speak truth through the lens of wisdom, the lens of experience, the lens of reality, and above all, through the lens of love and truth. 

The older I get, the more clearly my lens focuses on what truly matters—the real meaning of life—and the powerful truth that it’s never too late to shape humanity through words.

We have to help the next generation turn away from their addiction to knowledge, their addiction to social platforms, and their addiction to fame. Our minds were never meant to absorb so much information, and this has caused our lenses to become blurred far too early in life. 

We may not bring anything new to the table, but what we do have is a more focused lens—sharpened by years, pain, and perspective—unlike the generations coming behind us. We now compete with machines that have fostered a deep addiction to information, shaping the lenses of humanity across all ages. Just look around the next time you are out and see humanity with their heads down and their eyes locked on their machines. 

The lens will tell the real story. A focused lens reveals the truth, but if it’s distorted, it brings lies into reality. I have looked through the lens as a twenty-year-old, as a thirty-year-old, as a forty-year-old, as a fifty-year-old, and now as a sixty-year-old. I now see more clearly the traumas that have shaped me. I have accepted the fact that I was not the cause but a casualty of a lens that was so blurred and full of evil. As I walked into the path of that evil lens, nothing but torture took place. I tried my best to stay out of sight. 

Those traumas have given me a unique vision, a hard-earned clarity that helps me fight my battles one at a time—mostly with myself, and sometimes with those around me. Some never realize they are in the focus of my lens. They are just stray casualties of the ever-changing lens and the unwanted focus that was not meant for them. They take it personally, but it’s not that way at all. The fact of the matter is that what comes into the view of the lens has a purpose, and that purpose is to bring a clear vision to our humanity, our life, our purpose, and our existential being. 

I have come to one conclusion about this story. It is much more complex than just a short one-liner. With that said, I will focus on what’s ahead. 

It’s been weeks now, and I’m still struggling with the direction. The front end of this story has changed so many times. I believe it’s because when we sit back and take time to bring clarity into focus, the lens brings something that is so beautiful that we can say, That’s it!

That’s what’s different about my twenty-year-old lens, my thirty-year-old lens, and even my forty-year-old lens. These years were about taking everything in and processing what came into focus. My formative years were so blurry. I lived in survival mode, where there was no time to focus on anything else. 

I know that’s not the case for all of humanity. I often wonder what it’s like to be looking through a twenty-year-old lens right now; it must be terrifying. Even the thirty and forty-year-old lens must carry deep concern for what’s to come. 

But a focused lens brings hope and a calm reality. We all come from uniquely shaped lenses, and that’s what makes this world so beautiful and diverse. If we all shared the same focus and the same lens in this life, we would not need Him. That’s the beauty of the lens; it builds us, layer by layer, shaping us through the years. 

Now, my fifty-year-old lens was the start of a revolution inside of my soul. I’m not sure if that’s true for all lenses that develop in our humanity, but for me, it sparked a new clarity. To be honest, the late fifties brought an awakening of sorts that led me into a new era. I realized that I had spent so many years running from the very clarity that I was searching for. I kept the focus I desired out of reach because of fear. I was afraid of what would come into view, afraid of what clarity might bring. I fought hard. And now, I am in my sixty-year-old lens. 

I am still fighting for clarity. I want to see, but I am still fearful of this past that seems to emerge with new memories and destruction. Yet I now have tools—handed to me by the grace of beautiful people who were placed in my life.

Despite all the scratches, rough spots, and blurred areas on my lens, there is hope. The scratches are reminders of past losses and past victories—each one now clearer in hindsight. The rough patches reflect the mountains I have climbed and the roads I have traveled. The blurred spots? Maybe they’re just meant to stay there for now. Maybe that’s grace, too.

No matter where you are in your lens of life, accept the scratches, the rough patches, and even the blur. These are all part of the journey. Look at what’s in focus now. Work on that. That’s where you are right now. That’s what matters.

Clarity will come with time. Don’t rush toward it so quickly that you miss the understanding meant for the moment. True clarity will never come from the machines designed to overwhelm our minds. It comes through genuine connection—one-on-one—and through alignment with our purpose in life. 

Our relational response to one another is what brings clarity and vision to our purpose in life. 

So, let’s continue to polish our lenses—the lens of compassion, attention, purpose, and love. 

www.sandwestedit.com  

  

I Saw You

I Saw You

Hey Chris, I saw you today. You were sitting on the rail of the pier, fishing with your friends. You were talking it up as usual and asking questions about the fish in the Cape Fear River. You were probably asking how deep the water is and what kind of bait you should use. This reminds me of how you used to ask those questions in the old days down by the river. 

Your beard still looks the same, all spotty with rough patches around your chin. Your hands still look the same—their strength tells the story of a working man. Your voice is still scruffy and harsh sounding, but so soft in tone. 

It’s the last day of vacation for Lisa and me in Southport, North Carolina. We have fished on the city pier almost every day for the last nine days. Some days were good and other days not so good. We found ourselves staying in room six again at the Riverside Motel. This seems to be a magical place for encounters. There was a tropical storm that rolled through the first couple of days, most likely impacting the fishing. For the most part, our trip was wonderful. People from all walks of life strolled out on the city pier throughout the day. Some just watched as we fished, and some wanted to talk about it. 

Today was like all the other days since we’ve been here; the fishing was slow, and the crowds were large. I’m not sure that we blended in as locals, but they thought we knew what we were doing. Ironically, we were on our last fishing rigs because we had lost all to the rocks below, and we only had a few pieces of bait left. We were far from locals; we were the only people fishing together. No matter the place, we have always enjoyed this togetherness. We listen to stories in stereo and repeat them later in mono to each other. Did you hear that? Did you hear this one? Oh, wait a minute, did you hear her and the story she told? These brought smiles and laughter to our souls. 

But there was one thing about today that was different. We noticed a tent near the pier and lots of children and parents setting something up. We just thought it was a different vendor, as they frequently came to that area to sell stuff. It was hot on the pier, and there were numerous locals fishing. You can tell who they are; they just look like they belong. I didn’t pay much attention to them. I looked mostly at the water and listened to surrounding conversations. That’s what I enjoy the most, just listening and waiting for the next story to come to life. 

I had just emerged from the grip of a story that had me locked down for months—one of those complex, never-ending pieces that refuse to let you rest. The Lens haunted me day and night, demanding my attention. After countless revisions, I finally sent it to my editor, who does beautiful work. As I write this story, it’s still with her. 

When I am free, I tend to listen more intently and watch people more closely. But the freedom is short-lived—another story is always on the verge of unfolding. 

I was listening to several stories today on the city pier. Some were as prescribed, which simply means I could tell you the end before they finished. No big deal—just the way I listen and process. 

I’ve been thinking about a person we met earlier in the week who seemed to be carrying a great deal of pain in her life. I didn’t press for any details. As I handed her my book, she simply said, “How did you know I needed this right now?” I wondered if this would be my next story. But it became clear it wasn’t—maybe later though. 

As we fished, I noticed a group of people coming down the city pier with their children, asking if we would like some lemonade. My knee-jerk response was, “No,” without even thinking or looking at who was offering me this sweet, refreshing drink. Then I glanced down. It was a little guy, maybe five or six years old, reaching up towards me with a cup of lemonade, and in his other hand, he held a pocket Jesus. 

“For you,” he said. I melted.

I was… I’m now crying just trying to write this. I was so humbled. So blessed. Moved beyond words. Not worthy of it. Humbled again. Hands in the air—overwhelmed by this unexpected expression of love right there on the city pier. 

I took the lemonade and the little Jesus and told the boy I had always wanted one of those. I placed it front and center in my tackle box. He also gave me a flower and a card with the name of their church. I was so moved by this that fishing didn’t even matter anymore. It was just about that moment and what was happening right then and there. 

They continued up and down the city pier, blessing everyone they met. 

I was staring at the water below, and this little girl came over to a group of people behind me on the pier who were fishing. She offered the group some lemonade, and they said, “Sure.” I held my cup up to toast the girl in the group, and one of them called out in a loud voice, “I know, right?” We acknowledged each other without any other social exchange, but it was great. 

I had not paid much attention to this small group of five or six behind me. They were all talking, and they even had some music playing very low. They looked like they were in their thirties or so. The group seemed to be more about just being there than fishing. I thought that was cool. 

The parents and children were making another pass to see if anyone needed a new cup of lemonade—or even a little Jesus. As they approached the group behind me, they asked, “Anyone need a lemonade or a Jesus?” One guy said in a very scruffy and harsh voice with a very soft tone to the little guy, “I don’t want any lemonade, but I will take a Jesus.” 

I turned—almost in slow motion—to see who had said this. My eyes followed from the floor of the pier up to the young man sitting on the rail. It was my brother, Chris! 

“I’ll take Jesus,” he said. I stared at this young man, and for a moment, our eyes met. It was as if he was saying, “I’m okay.” No words were spoken—just a quiet reassurance he was at peace. That while he was no longer here, he was doing just fine with his Jesus. 

Chris passed years ago after a long battle with drugs—a battle he could never win. The pain was too deep. At thirty-seven, his life ended, and his struggle finally gave way to peace. He is the one who introduced me and my family to Jesus. For that, I will always be grateful, and I am happy that he encountered Jesus when he did. 

I watched as the young man on the rail hopped down, tucked the little Jesus in his pocket, and walked away. As our eyes met once more, he gave me a glance that seemed to say, “I’m going to be just fine. I have Jesus with me now.” I stood there quietly and watched as they disappeared into the crowd.

When my brother left this world, all he had was a few papers in his pocket and a small New Testament Bible. I still have it to this day. This encounter reminded me that all we have in this world is hope. Hope that things are going to be okay. Hope that we are going to make it. 

Just like the old days at the river‚—we fished, we hoped, and we loved. 

It was great to see you today, my brother!

We all need a little Jesus in our lives.

www.sandwestedit.com